


Time Will Tell

by BlissfulAbyss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cissamione, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 14:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlissfulAbyss/pseuds/BlissfulAbyss
Summary: The reconstruction of Hogwarts is finally finished and they have already begun to make preparations for the school year. Hermione returns to start her Seventh Year and is determined to take her N.E.W.T.S. This year is supposed to bring positive change; she'll plan her future and finally step out of the spotlight. However, it doesn't take Hermione long to realize some have suffered far worse than she has. Only time can heal wounds, but sometimes the support of a special person can speed along the process.Eventual Cissamione





	1. Qui Vivra Verra

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, I'm just dabbling in J.K. Rowling's world. 
> 
> One day the idea for this story popped in my head and I decided to run with it. It is my first fanfic, so I welcome any critique with open arms. Reviews are definitely appreciated. Post Deathly Hallows and also partially canon compliant. Draco did not live through the last battle, but that's really the only change I made. This will be a multi-chapter story. As long as I can keep my muse, then you will have frequent updates haha. 
> 
> I'll apologize in advance for any spelling/grammatical mistakes. Also, huge s/o to pocketsfullofart! I couldn't do this without her!

Steam from the Hogwarts Express filled the station, a warning of it’s ready departure. Families gather around each other one last time; parents bidding their children farewell, younger brothers and sisters clinging to the coattails of their departing siblings. For the past few months, the wizarding community was buzzing with excitement. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had announced a grand reopening after months of continuous reconstruction. No one expected the school to reopen so soon. However, once Kingsley Shacklebolt was appointed the new Minister of Magic, he made it a priority. And the support he received was staggering. Witches and wizards from all over helped rebuild the school to it’s former glory. A model of the future, Minister Shacklebolt had said in one of his speeches. Hermione remembered his address very clearly, as it was one of the first after the war had ended. Kingsley Shacklebolt had said: _“Hogwarts itself is symbolic --not only because of the centuries worth of history inside, but because it is the emblem of perseverance and Light. Good will always conquer evil. Let us learn from our past mistakes. Together we will create a future that is safe for our children and our children’s children.”_

The wizarding world changed drastically after the Battle of Hogwarts. For the first time in decades people felt _safe_ and _happy_ . No longer were threats looming in every corner of the street. No longer were families being targeted and tortured. Of course, the destruction that Voldemort left in his wake was agonizing. Loved ones were killed and families were separated, but no one could deny that tiny, but growing, feeling of _hope._

Hermione hurried inside the train, desperately trying to go unnoticed. The popularity she had gained since the war ended was overwhelming. Fame seemed to follow her everywhere she went. As did the constant photographs and endless questions, most of which she had no answer to. _“You will learn to adjust,”_ everyone had told her, Ron, and Harry. They all seemed to forget previous to the Final Battle, the three had been hunting Horcruxes for almost a year. During that time they were starving, all the while being both physically and mentally exhausted. One moment they had been running for their life, then the next they were being treated like royalty.

All the unwanted attention was exhausting. Hermione was never one to shy away from the mundane world of politics; she was hardly surprised when invitations to give speeches and attend dinner parties arrived at her door. Everyone was affected by the Second War, so if she could give some people closure and reassurance, then she would do so with a smile on her face.

But she wasn’t smiling anymore. Not when the doors closed. Not when the makeup and expensive robes came off.

It took Hermione a while to figure out why it was so hard for her to roll out of bed. Then, a tawny colored owl arrived one night with a letter from Headmistress McGonagall, asking when she would be arriving at Hogwarts to finish her Seventh Year and take the N.E.W.T.S. Hermione had been so caught up the last couple months that she had almost forgotten about her plan to return to finish out her magical education. That’s when it dawned on her. Nothing had been the same after the war. Her parents were somewhere in Australia, granted they were safe, or at least she hoped they were. The truth was, Hermione had no idea if her parents where were her parents were, or if they were safe. The last time she had seen them was when she cast the memory charm. Afterwards, a member of the Order took them away, promising her they would be kept from harm. Only that person knew where her parents were, and they hadn’t survived the war.

There were no leads to their location, or even evidence of their existence. If they were alive, could their memories be restored? Or would they never recognize their own daughter? Hermione could not decide which was worse: knowing they were dead, or knowing they were alive but would never remember their past?

She had spent a majority of her time between consoling the grieving Weasley’s, attending trials, and worrying about the aftermath of the war, that she had no time to reflect and grieve on her own.

Returning to Hogwarts was going to give her an opportunity to reassess her life, at least that is what she desperately hoped. The school had always felt like a second home, so maybe now some level of normalcy could be put back in her life. Besides, she always felt better when there were tasks and assignments to be completed.

As Hermione walked down the corridor, she could not shake the feeling that things would be different this year. Harry and Ron jumped at the opportunity to train as Aurors. There were still a number of Death Eaters, and followers of Voldemort, on the run. The Ministry of Magic needed help to catch the remaining fugitives and who was more qualified than Ron Weasley and Harry Potter?

“No one,” Hermione commented on her own thoughts, as small smile spread across her features and a warm feeling of pride swelled in her chest.

Hermione was extremely proud of her two best friends, but she could not deny the feeling of self pity at the thought of attending Seventh Year alone.

“Hermione!” a familiar voice called out to get the brunette’s attention. “Come sit with me.”

Ginny Weasley beamed over at her close friend while motioning Hermione to join her. Ginny’s happiness eased the gnawing melancholy that settled in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. She was thankful for the offer, especially since the seats that she usually sat in were occupied by a group of overly anxious First Years. As Hermione settled in her seat, Ginny reacted over and affectionately squeezed her hand. Words did not need to be exchanged between the two. Ginny knew exactly what Hermione was thinking, as there was a tiny hint of trepidation that caused a crease in Hermione’s usual relaxed brow.

Hermione turned slowly from Ginny to gazed out of the window with thoughts of her parents and her friends running through her mind. Ginny sighed quietly and stared at her friend with concern. She knew if she didn’t start a conversation soon she would lose Hermione to her haunted memories. “Did you receive the letter that the Headmistress sent this morning?” Ginny asked. Hermione turned and looked at Ginny in confusion. “The letter that said there will be a Gala in the place of the welcoming feast this year? The families of everyone who fought in the final battle were invited to attend,” she paused, “I suppose it’s going to be grand.” Hermione’s eyes went wide as she remembered that she indeed did receive said letter. “ _How could I have forgotten?”_ Hermione thought.

“I suppose it will be,” Hermione responded with a slight upturn of her lips at Ginny’s optimism.

“Do you want to know what else I’ve heard?” Ginny asked a hint of mystery and eagerness to her voice. Hermione tilted her head to the side and shook her head slightly with a small smile signaling for her friend to continue  “Mum told me that the Headmistress also sent a letter to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy…Do you think they’ll attend?” Ginny asked lightly looking at Hermione hoping that small bit of information would cause her friend to carry on the conversation. However, Ginny’s grand plan to keep her friend talking was short lived. Hermione turned her head away from Ginny to stare at the floor before moving to study the rest of her fellow classmates boarding the train.

“Perhaps.” Hermione whispered.

With one final whistle, the train doors closed and began to inch forward. The excited chatter of students filled the corridors, but Hermione quietly sat side by side with Ginny wondering if the enigmatic Narcissa Malfoy would be attending the Gala. 

 —

Sunlight streamed into the kitchen as Narcissa Malfoy started to prepare her morning tea. She stopped at the window above the sink and rested her hands on the cold granite countertops. The world outside looked like a dream. White clouds speckled the clear blue sky, flowers were in full bloom, and the shrubs were groomed to perfection. Right across her view was a garden that had recently been worked on by the groundskeeper. The flowerbeds possessed vibrant colors of exotic fauna, while a magnificent oak tree loomed in the center. Many happy memories were made in that garden, most of them when Draco was a young boy.

She smiled at the particular memory of when Draco was around four years old. Narcissa had sent him outside to entertain himself while she finished some business she needed to attend to. He had been unusually quiet as he played, which caused Narcissa to become very suspicious. She had walked over to the window to check on her son, only to find Draco hunched over in the corner of the garden with mounds of dirt surrounding him. Narcissa’s first reaction had been to call him inside and get him cleaned up, but she stopped herself before she shouted his name. As Draco sat there, playing and digging in the dirt, he looked entranced in his own little world. Narcissa had just watched him for a while, her heart so full of love for her son. She let him continue in his own little fantasy. Not but an hour later, when she had returned to her work, Draco approached her covered head to toe in dirt, and reached out to show her the multitudes of worms that squirmed in his palms. Even though his clothes were ruined and mud was tracked in her house, Narcissa couldn’t help but smile and laugh at the way his eyes lit up as he showcased his worm collection. 

The harshness of reality settled back in as she stared out at the empty garden. Any slight feeling of happiness the memory brought was replaced with grief and sorrow. Narcissa moved away from the window and toward the kettle on the stove, no longer to withstand the dull heartache that those memories caused. She needed a distraction, something to keep her mind occupied, because her emotions threatened to take over. She was so emotionally exhausted that she had no more tears to shed. It was better to stay busy.

 However, the thought was short lived.

An owl tapped at the glass, a white envelope clamped between its beak. Narcissa opened the window and carefully took the letter from the owl, then mindlessly handed it a treat. She recognized the crest right away. Her chest suddenly tightened with pain and longing. Each year, since Draco had turned eleven, an envelope with the same crest would appear in the very same spot. A new letter with every new school year. But, this year there should not have been a letter. Draco did not survive the Final Battle, which meant no more letters. No more of her blonde haired boy running around Diagon Alley, shopping for new books, brooms, and cauldrons. No more silent tears as he boarded the Hogwarts Express.  

So why was there a letter from Hogwarts in front of her?

Rage momentarily bubbled up to the surface of her impenetrable facade. She was tempted to snatch it, rip it up, and through it in the fire. No one would be there to witness if she lost control, which only added to the enticement. But a second later, the rage was replaced with defeat. She picked up the envelope and ran her fingers over the cursive letters that read _Malfoy Manor_. Carefully, as if holding a precious stone, Narcissa opened it. Memories of Draco replaying in her mind, distracting her so much that she had read over the entire thing without registering a single word, or noticed a small slip of paper that fell onto the ground.

“What is that?” The unmistakable voice of her husband pulled Narcissa from her thoughts.

“A letter from Hogwarts,” Narcissa responded as Lucius approached her, a glass of FireWhiskey in his hand.

Everyone has their own way of coping with pain. Some throw themselves in their work, or occupy their time with a hobby. Some become reclusive, locking themselves in a room, never to come out again. Lucius drank. He drank to cope with the loss of his son. He drank away his failures. He drank to deal with the harsh reality of the depreciation of his prestigious bloodline. As he approached Narcissa, she could smell the liquor wafted off of him like cologne. It was only morning, yet he had already downed a few glasses. His long hair was disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and cheekbones sunken in. The once mighty patriarch was replaced with a ghost of a broken man.

“They have invited us to attend the Grand Gala,” Narcissa commented as she turned away from him as the stench of liquor drew nearer. She silently pleaded for him to go away the closer he got. Lucius’s inebriate swagger was an obvious indicator of how foul his mood could become if even slightly provoked.

“A gala? Another celebration for Dark Lord’s defeat?” For a moment Lucius seemed lost in his thoughts as he stared at the invitation in Narcissa’s hand. “How peculiar,” he stated, “we aren’t usually invited to such…joyous…events.” Lucius reached out and carefully put his hand on Narcissa’s wrist. He started to slowly rub circles with his thumb as he draw closer to her body. To a bystander his actions looked pure —an act of affection from a  husband who was consoling his grieving wife.

However, Narcissa knew better. She froze as soon as his hand touched her skin, the tension in the air intensifying almost immediately. “Yes,” Narcissa answered, although it ambiguous to which question, or statement, she was answering. “They have invited everyone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. I presume it’s to commemorate the school’s reopening.” She chose her words carefully and spoke them in an even tone, trying to avoid a fight.

“Oh?” For a moment it seemed as though he was going to retreat back into the cave of a room that he crawled out of.  “Even the Death Eaters? Even the dead?” Lucius responded, his voice laced with disdain and suddenly yanked the white card stock invitation from her grip. “Invite the Malfoy’s, their son cannot attend, so maybe they will want to in his place,” he mocked. “Was their invitation only to serve as a reminder that our son is dead?!”

His words caused Narcissa to recoil. The rhetorical question held some truth, even though she knew that was not the intention. She met her husband’s gaze, a half drunken and half insane look reflected in his eyes, while nothing but disapproval reflected back in her’s. Months of putting up with his nonsense lead her to become disillusioned with his empty words.  

“Have you forgotten what got him killed in the first place?” Narcissa’s words echoed in the room, clearly hissed with venom. Even if she regretted what she said, it didn’t show. Ever since Lucius turned to drinking, his moods were unpredictable and often he would become violent on a whim. It was better, and safer, to dismiss whatever he said. For both of their sakes. “Clean yourself up, Lucius.”

Lucius straightened, his glare directed mercilessly at his wife and began to slowly rip up the invitation. “You do not get to talk to me like that,” he growled and stalked past her. Before Lucius left the room, he turned around to face her one last time, “You are prohibited from attending.” Without another word, he walked out.

Narcissa let out a huff of breath she hadn’t realized she had held in. Mentally exhausted, she slouched into a lounge chair, crossed her legs and pinched the bridge of her nose. Their marriage was falling apart and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Truth be told, she did not want to stop it. A large part of her blamed Lucius for Draco’s death, no matter how unfair it was to do so. Never in her life had she doubted pureblood supremacy until her son was put in harm's way. Her doubts began when Draco was given the task of killing Dumbledore after Lucius failed to bring the Dark Lord his prophecy.   _Toujours Pur,_ the powerful Black family’s motto was ingrained into her head since she was a little girl. “ _Always Pure_ ,” their mother and father would whisper in their ears until they chanted it in their sleep. She did the same with Draco, but where did that get him? Where did she go wrong?

Narcissa returned her attention back to the invitation, which was now tiny pieces scattered on the floor. She noticed a small slip of paper that had somehow went unscathed from Lucius’ outburst. Her eyes traveled up to the doorway, checking to see if he had been lurking to see if a reaction out of her. Once Narcissa believed he was gone, she walked over to the small piece of paper and picked it up. The paper was addressed to Narcissa Malfoy. For a moment Narcissa’s eyes widened as she Minerva McGonagall’s unmistakable cursive, but then her impenetrable mask fell back in place.

Lucius’s threats were empty, but what he had said held some truth. Why invite them? Why should they bother attending? However, something compelled Narcissa to go. Maybe it was because Draco spent most of his childhood at Hogwarts. Perhaps attending would give her some closure. Before she changed her mind, Narcissa summoned quill and paper to send off her reservation. It was possible that she would come to regret this decision, but right now she just needed a little bit more of her son to hang onto.

 


	2. The Gala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All grammatical and punctuational mistakes are my own. That being said, if you notice anything, please don’t hesitate to send me a PM so I can fix it! If you have time, please leave a review. I’m trying to become a better writer and would love to hear your input!
> 
> Lately, I’ve been writing nonstop for this fanfic. So, for right now, updates should be a bit more frequent. Some chapters still need to be reviewed (any betas out there?) and edited. But, I do want to give my readers reassurance that this will be an active story. Anyways, if you like this story, or just want to talk about Cissamione, I would love to hear from you! Drop a review or PM me, I will always answer back!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

“After the past year you would think I would start to like this — ,” Hermione exaggeratedly motioned up and down at her reflection in the mirror. “But I still dread getting dressed up as much as I did Fourth Year,” she added as her friend zipped the back of the dress up. Somehow she had agreed to let Ginny drag her into Diagon Alley to go shopping for the Gala. Hermione had planned on reusing one of the many evening gowns she now owned, but the redhead would not hear it. And now, Ginny had her up on a stand, modeling different styles of dresses.

“For some reason I’m lead to believe that you don’t fancy anything that doesn’t involve schoolwork,” Ginny responded with a playful tone. Hermione frowned. Her statement was partially true, however she had matured since Sixth Year, especially after hunting Horcruxes. Ginny watched as Hermione took a step closer to the mirror to analyze the stitching on the dress, “I wish Harry and Ron were attending.” 

A pang of sadness pulled in Hermione’s chest. Her best friends had owled her only a few days after arriving at Hogwarts. Their training would not permit them to join her and Ginny at the Gala. They had promise write more often.  _ Try to write more often,  _ she reminded herself. Hermione knew they were busy, so her hopes were not too high on receiving any letters anytime soon. Besides, they had never been very good at communication anyways. 

Hermione wiggled the front of the dress a little higher on her chest and looked at Ginny in the mirror, “I know, me too.” 

After they were finished buying their dresses, they headed back to Hogwarts. Ginny had Head Girl duties to attend to, which spurred a slight twinge of jealousy in Hermione, but she tried her hardest to be happy for her friend. 

Truthfully, Hermione had expected to be crowned Head Girl, even if she was a year older than everyone else. When the Headmistress called the Gryffindor to her office, Hermione could not stop the anxious butterflies that were fluttering in her stomach. There was no doubt in her mind that McGonagall was going to ask her to take the position. However, things did not go as she had planned, to say the least.

(flashback)

_ “Miss Granger,” the woman’s northern accent sounded as the door to the room opened. McGonagall’s familiar face appeared as Hermione walked through the corridor and into her office. The room was different since the last time she had been in there; Dumbledore had been alive then. Now, it had more of a feminine touch to it. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming  _ _ — _ _ then again Hermione realized that she could be a bit biased, considering McGonagall had always been her favorite Professor during her childhood.  _

_ “You called, Professor?” Hermione asked as she finished perusing the office. Professor McGonagall nodded, “Yes, I called you here to speak to you about something very important.” The burnette’s heartbeat quickened in excitement. She tried to maintain her composure, but a part of her knew that the Transfiguration teacher could see right through her. Immediately the Professor’s face fell, realizing the miscommunication between the two.  _

_ “I wished to talk to you about something.” McGonagall fixed her spectacles on her nose and put her quill down. “Hermione, I wrote to you this summer because I knew you wanted to complete your magical education. I did not ask  _ if  _ you were going to be back, but  _ when.  _ You have always been a pupil and I wanted to see that you finished your N.E.W.T.S like you had planned.” Hermione’s brows furrowed together in confusion. Why was the Headmistress bringing this up? Of course she had planned on returning to finish her Seventh Year! Even when Kingsley Shacklebolt offered her a position as an Auror, without taking her N.E.W.T.S, she had turned him down.  _

_ “Since your first year, you have had a large burden set upon your shoulders. You were dragged into a war that was not your own, then had the responsibility of defeating one of the world’s most powerful dark wizards.” McGonagall paused, drawing in a deep breath. “Ginny Weasley will be Head Girl this year.”  _

_ “Excuse me?” Hermione whispered with not even a moment’s hesitation. The Professor looked down at the papers on her desk, then pushed her chair out to stand up. “ Miss Weasley will take over the duties of Head Girl for this school year,” the older woman repeated. She had anticipated Hermione to react this exact way -- composed, but also distraught. For some reason the Headmistress felt like the girl deserved an explanation. “I did not do this to slight you. I debated my decision for a long time, Hermione. Miss Weasley was not gone fo _ _ — _ _ ”  _

_ “ _ _ — _ _ We were hunting Horcruxes!” Hermione intervened, her voice shaking not with anger, but with confusion and despondency. “I chose not to attend Seventh Year with the rest of my peers because I was needed for a larger cause. Why am I being punished for that?” Her shoulders slumped forward, whatever equanimity she possessed earlier was gone.  _

_ “You are not being punished, my dear,” McGonagall spoke as she rounded her desk to approach the girl. “The title and role of Head Girl is very honorable, yes, but I’m afraid you have outgrown it. Focus on preparing for your N.E.W.T.S. Focus on your future. Many professors here have expressed interest in giving you an apprenticeship. You would not have those kind of opportunities if you were Head Girl.”  _

_ Slowly, Hermione nodded, although she did not meet the professor’s gaze. A mixture of embarrassment and disappointment caused a prickling sensation in her cheeks. “I understand,” she muttered quietly, wanting to escape before she broke down in front of the Professor. “I’ll think about the apprenticeships, but I am tired after traveling, so if you do not mind…” the brunette trailed off. “May I go back to the rooms now?”  _

_ McGonagall stared back at the pupil of Gryffindor, a worried frown on her face, “Yes, of course.”  _

_ Without another word, Hermione turned around and left.  _

Now that Hermione had time to reflect on what happened, she realized that the Professor had made several valid points. Even though it still pained her to think that she was not going to be Head Girl, there were still other opportunities to choose from. An apprenticeship would be incredibly helpful, especially for preparing the her N.E.W.T.S. It would give her a challenge and a set of goals to achieve. Maybe she could even pursue research while she was still at Hogwarts. That would certainly give her an advantage in the job market after graduation.  __

As soon as they arrived at Hogwarts’ gates, Ginny dashed off in a hurry. “Come to my room tonight! We can get ready there!” the Head Girl called out as she rushed toward the castle. With a mental sigh, Hermione trudged forward eager to get back to her room. 

\----

The sun sank into the horizon, painting the sky with an array of vibrant colors. Hermione slipped into her dress, trying to be careful, but at the same time struggling, as she attempted to zip up the back. At first Ginny had tried to have her buy a more sensual gown, but even after all these years she was still bit of a prude. Somehow, this particular dress made it under the red head’s radar. Although it was not necessarily revealing, it did fit snug to her figure. The dress was long sleeve and a deep red color that complimented her complexion well. With the help of copious amounts of hair product, her hair was braided into a bun at the nape of her neck. 

“ Are you ready?” Ginny asked while stepping out, wearing a golden colored dress that complimented Hermione’s burgundy one perfectly.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Hermione said with a small smile “You look beautiful Ginny.” She finished while looking at her friend. But as quickly as that fragment of a smile came it was whisked away by a look of trepidation. Ginny truly was beautiful and grown. Hermione turned head and sighed slowly. Flashes of a young, bright eyed and freckled little girl being thrust quickly into adulthood began to plague her, flooding her chest with anguish. She couldn’t stop the heart wrenching scenes racing before her eyes of an innocent child taking on tasks that adults would have shuddered from, enduring abuses by Death Eaters during her time in Hogwarts, and experiencing the tragic death of a brother only 3 years older than her.  _ I could of saved her from such grief if I had only been a little quicker, stronger…smarter.  _

Ginny frowned as she witnessed her friend succumb to self deprecation and depression. She slowly stepped toward her friend, reaching out to place her hands on the middle of Hermione’s arms.

“You’re one of my closest friends,” she said worry painting her features, her voice tight with emotion. “I can tell something is wrong. You’ve been distant since you stepped on the train.” Ginny shook Hermione lightly, as if to wake a child from a nightmare. Her brow furrowed in concern, staring intensely at her, internally begging for Hermione’s stormy eyes to clear. “What’s wrong?” She whispered breathlessly. 

Hermione shrugged, trying to play it off, but knew that Ginny would be relentless if she did not get the answer she was looking for. “I guess it’s because I finally have time to slow down and think,” she answered truthfully. “Ever since the war ended we had been going nonstop. At first it was constant danger while we were in the pursuit of defeating Voldemort,” Hermione paused and looked up at Ginny. “We all thought everything would stop once he was gone. But it didn’t. Life continued and we were still as busy as ever. First there were the many trials of previous Death Eaters and their families. Then, the commemorations that we had to attend. Not to mention the fame that everything brought.” She closed her eyes and leaned into her friend. “I was so caught up in all of it, that I didn’t have time to think  — to really stop and reflect on all the events that had happened in the past year.”

“And now, I’m afraid that everything, all the emotions  I have ignored and situations I have avoided are piled up behind this wall I have constructed. It’s only a matter of time before I have to confront it all. And now I’m going to have to do it all along. Harry and Ron are away, I have no idea I’ll see them next. My parents are gone…” Hermione bit back a sob. The last thing she wanted was to break down before she had to be in a room filled with hundreds of people. “You are not alone, Hermione Granger.” Ginny pulled her into a hug.“You have me. You still have Ron and Harry. Luna, Neville, McGonagall, the list could go on.”  

“No one has to go through anything alone. We have each other.” Hermione was quite taken back by Ginny’s words. So much had changed since the year the Trio went on the run. Ginny was no longer Ron’s younger sister, or Harry’s crush. Ginny was her own person now. The war had matured her too. And she right, Hermione was not alone. 

Hermione wrapped her arms around Ginny, holding onto her tightly. She did not trust herself to speak without her voice breaking. She did not need to, Ginny understood the unspoken words between them. “The Daily Prophet called this gala the ‘Highlight of the Year,’” she smirked. “Let’s go see if they were right,” the redheaded Gryffindor said as she took Hermione’s hand and led them toward the Great Hall. 

\--

Hogwarts had always thrown extravagant parties, in fact, Hermione could not remember a time when her breath was not taken away while entering the Great Hall. However, nothing could compare to the decor of this particular event. The golden hue of the dimly lit hall and the soft sound of background music added to the delightful ambience. 

“Hermione!” Neville Longbottom called out, appearing from out of behind a large group of people. Hermione turned around to find where the familiar voice was coming from. Surprisingly, it took her a while to locate him and when she did see, she was pleasantly shocked. Neville approached and gave the two a warm embrace,“I couldn’t believe it when I heard you would be returning to finish your Seventh Year.” Slowly, her eyes trailed down his body. What happened to the awkward boy she knew all throughout school? Standing in front of her was a confident man in a tailored suit. “Well, actually I could believe it. Hermione Granger would never settle for anything less than all O’s on her N.E.W.T.S. Even if she was offered a highly desired job without taking them,” an amiable smile reached his eyes. 

Neville’s friendly demeanor was contagious and before she knew it, she was smiling and laughing with the others. For the first time in months she felt genuinely happy. 

People began to couple off onto the dance floor as the music slowed down. “Can I have this dance?” Neville’s hand stretched out toward Hermione, a clear invitation to join him on floor. “Yes, you may,” humor laced her formal response as she followed him out. As they reached the middle of swaying crowd, Hermione placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in his palm.

“I heard you have an apprenticeship?” Hermione asked as they began to fall in rhythm with the music. Neville nodded his head, “I’m studying Herbology under Professor Sprout.” While Potions, Transfiguration, and basically every other subject were not exactly Neville’s strong suit, Herbology was. And he was very talented at it.

“Why did you decide to get an apprenticeship here? Why not go somewhere else?” Out of their whole graduating class, only she and Neville returned to Hogwarts. Others went off to find work elsewhere.

“Hogwarts has many opportunities for me to start my profession here. Professor Sprout plans on retiring in a few years anyways, so I would like to try to get hired on the staff.” Neville spun Hermione around. “We will soon be responsible for teaching the next generation of children. I want to be apart of that. With everything we have learned and endured, I truly believe that we can make a difference. You know, to make sure we don’t make the same mistakes again” 

_ Professor Longbottom, _ Hermione thought as he explained his intentions for the future. “You will make a fine Professor, Neville.”

Pride reflected in Neville’s eyes, “Do you have any plans after you have finished this school year?”  __

“I have a few ideas.” Well, that was not necessarily true, but it was not a lie either. She did have several professions she would be interested in pursuing. Although, none of them she was very passionate about. 

“First I need to take my N.E.W.T.S.,” she replied with a small shrug of her shoulders.

“That shouldn’t be a problem for you,” Neville said with a chuckle. She rolled her eyes and gave him a little, good natured shove while they danced. “Professor McGonagall had spoken to me about…” she trailed off as her gaze landed on the Headmistress. 

Hermione watched as a woman followed Professor McGonagall out of the Great Hall. All eyes seemed to follow this woman’s every move, her presence commanded their attention, and she did this all so effortlessly. The Gryffindor recognized the woman right away. There was only one person who could make attending these parties so  _ easy _ . There was only one woman who could look so comfortable under the admiration, or scrutiny, of others. 

Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione’s jaw clenched as the two women left, side by side. Anger, that she did not know she possessed, festered within her. The tempo of the music increased and so did their movements. They swept along the floor, bodies moving fluidly together, but she could not tear her attention away from the door that they disappeared through. Suddenly, pain seared her arm and her heartbeat starting beating so rapidly that she could feel it in her fingertips. The quick pace of their dance and the loud music sent her brain into overdrive. The room started to spin and she must have been digging her fingers into Neville’s shoulders because he abruptly stopped. 

Neville’s mouth was moving, but she could not register any of the words he was saying. “I-I” Hermione stuttered, trying to regain enough composure to leave the room without causing a scene. “I need some fresh air.”

Hermione shoved her way out of the middle of the dance floor and dashed out of the Great Hall. She clenched her arm, the pain was becoming unbearable. Once Hermione was out of sight, she leaned against the cool brick wall and pulled her long sleeve up. Red letters stared back at her; it was a sight she honestly had not gotten used to. 

_ Mudblood. _

Eight letters. One word. Branded on her skin for life.

She traced the angry looking scar with a shaking finger, the memories of that horrible night flashing in her mind. At first, Bellatrix cooed and spoke to her in a gentle voice, trying to coax Hermione into betraying her friends. When the raven haired woman finally realized that Hermione would rather die than give anything up, she took it upon herself to make the Gryffindor's life living hell. No matter how hard Hermione tried, she could not forget the absolute fear that consumed her every thought as she lay beneath Bellatrix. It was terrifying. Just the memory of the cursed dagger slicing her flesh almost made Hermione lose her mind. She supposed what had made it worse was that another woman had tortured her. Contrary to popular belief, Bellatrix’s skin was  _ soft _ , and she smelled  _ good.  _ Women were supposed to stand together, not torture each other, right? Hermione had felt violated, insulted, and most of all defeated that night at the Malfoy Manor. 

Hermione could never forget the cold, gunmetal blue glare her eyes locked with while she suffered countless rounds of the Cruciatus Curse. Narcissa had stood in the corner watching as her son’s classmate was being tormented by her sadistic sister. Hermione had silently begged for Narcissa to intervene. The woman had been her last resort, her last potential savior. 

But, Narcissa had done nothing to help her. The woman had even defended her sister while the Trio made their escape. 

And even though Ginny had mentioned that the Malfoy’s were invited, she never thought they would actually have the audacity to show up. Hermione felt nothing but resentment for the Malfoy matriarch. 

“Mrs. Malfoy,” the Headmistress’s voice echoed down the hallway, “I’m glad to see you were able to attend.” Hermione turned her head toward the faint sound of voices. The tone of Professor McGonagall’s voice was cordial, even friendly. Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes. Did her previous Head of House not know what that horrid family had done to her, to Harry? She crept closer until she could see the silhouette of the two standing out on the balcony. 

“I was able to fit it in my schedule, yes,” Narcissa said smoothly, the notorious Malfoy haughtiness painstakingly apparent in the tone of her voice. “However, Lucius was not able to make it. He had some responsibilities to see to tonight.” 

“I’m sure he does,” McGonagall replied evenly, although she was not fooled by the woman’s words. The Headmistress was too damn old and clever; she could see through the front Narcissa put up. “I may as well get to the point, since we don’t want to waste our time with formalities.” 

Hermione leaned closer, straining to hear their conversation while staying hidden behind the mantle of the stairwell. 

Professor McGonagall continued: “We need to fill in a few positions on the staff before the school year starts. Unfortunately, the war left quite a few vacancies.” The older witch clasped her hands in front her her, “As I stated in my letter, I want to extend an offer of joining our staff this year. I have not forgotten the talent you possessed during your years at Hogwarts, and you are more than qualified to teach. Your insight could be very valuable as well.” McGonagall was never one to beat about the bush, her last sentence made that very obvious. Narcissa’s husband was a reformed Death Eater, she had spent the majority of her life surrounded by them, and Voldemort had lived in their house. But, not everyone would consider her experiences “insight.” 

Shock, the only word that could summarise how Hermione felt the moment after the Headmistress stopped talking. McGonagall’s words provoked a fresh wave of ire. Her hands were clenched in fists at her waist, a glare directed at the blonde woman.  _ I will not stand for this,  _ Hermione thought with indignation. 

If Narcissa had not mastered the art of concealing her emotions long ago, she would have been very shocked. In fact, she still was, it just did not show. Instead, she held McGonagall’s gaze. “Insight?” Narcissa’s brow arched, “Yes, I supposed the least I can offer is some  _ insight. _ ”

“Do you really think that would fare well with the parents? The Ministry?” Surprisingly, Narcissa did not look offended and there was no hint of anger in her voice. “The only people who will benefit from me on your staff are the imbeciles at The Daily Prophet,” she drawled, looking very bored. “I can see the front page already: Wife of Ex-Death Eater Now New Hogwarts Professor”

Hermione watched as silence settled over the two older women. This was her chance to go talk some sense into her previous Head of House. She was just about to step out from behind the staircase when Professor McGonagall started to speak. 

“Think about it,” Minerva suggested and began to walk back they way they came. “Owl me with your answer, whatever it may be.” She turned to leave, but stopped momentarily, “I’ve said it before, but I will say it again. My apologies for your loss, Draco was a brilliant student.” Narcissa looked out toward the Black Lake, her posture perfectly poised. “He was,” she agreed quietly. 

Hermione watched as Professor McGonagall headed back to the Great Hall, leaving Narcissa alone and lost in her thoughts. After getting wrapped up in everything that happened after the last battle, Hermione never fully realized that Draco did not survive. It never occurred to her that the Malfoys had suffered a loss too. Narcissa lost her  _ son _ , a son she fiercely protected throughout the war. Harry had once told Hermione that Narcissa lied to Voldemort, confirming that he was dead, when in fact he was very much alive. That was why he testified at her trial, why she was free. 

The brunette observed Narcissa from afar and could not help but feel as if she was impeding on a private moment. The older woman was a poster product of pureblood elegance. The evening gown she wore was black, a stark contrast to her porcelain complexion. Her blonde hair was pulled back, which complimented her high cheekbones and jaw structure. Diamonds were wrapped around her neck and shone in the moonlight. Hermione could admit that this woman’s aristocratic beauty was breathtaking and made her feel a bit envious. 

Narcissa moved toward the balcony rail, trailing her fingers over the ancient stone. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The last time she had been to Hogwarts was to claim Draco’s body. This school did not bring happy memories, instead it forced her to recall the worst day of her life. 

Hermione began to feel extremely uncomfortable as she watched Narcissa. Imagine if she got caught, even though she was not doing anything wrong, she was pretty certain there would still be a punishment. However, Hermione could not stop staring. Never before had she seen Narcissa look so forlorn. In fact, she had never seen the witch display  _ any _ type of emotion. The woman’s heartbreak was almost tangible as she stood out on the balcony. Even from several meters away, Hermione noticed a slight change in the way the older witch held herself.  _ It’s probably because she thinks she is alone,  _ she thought. 

Without thinking, Hermione took a step from out of her hiding place. Her eyes were trained on Narcissa, whose front was facing away from her. For a second, Hermione had the urge to reach out and touch the grieving woman --to attempt an offer of solace. But, just as she began to reach out, Narcissa suddenly turned very quickly. At first, there was a subtle hint of surprise that passed over Narcissa’s features. It took her a moment to recognize the younger witch standing before her. But the moment of surprise left just as quickly as it came and a cool look of indifference settled back in place. 

Hermione immediately withdrew her slightly outreached hand, as if shocked by some electric force. The two stared at each other, both expressions unreadable. As Hermione stood there, a million emotions and thoughts ran through her mind. Her eyes searched Narcissa’s for some trace of the woman that she had just witnessed. However, that woman was gone and in its absence was the familiar impassive glare of Narcissa Malfoy, the pureblood supremacist. 

Uncertainty hung in the air around them, neither willing to acknowledge the other. Hermione found herself surveying Narcissa, trying to gage some sort of reaction from the woman. Her gazed trailed from the line of Narcissa’s jaw to the curve of her lips; the older witch seemed very relaxed, comfortable even. A clear sign of her arrogance. This caused Hermione’s brow to furrow in confusion. Slowly, her gaze reached up to that of the matriarch’s. 

_ Toujours Pur _ , Hermione thought bitterly as she scrutinized the woman’s lofty mien. The Gryffindor truly believed that Narcissa was trying to put on a display of prestige because of her blood lineage. Hermione bit her lip in vexation as memories flooded her mind. Narcissa was wearing the same arrogant look as the day Hermione found herself at Bellatrix’s mercy at the Malfoy Manor. The atmosphere of uncertainty escalated and crackled around them as Hermione’s mood suddenly changed. Absentmindedly, Hermione grasped her arm. She opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it. 

Narcissa blankly stared back at Hermione. For the first time since the fall of the Dark Lord, she was beginning to feel restless as she stood there under the observation of Hermione Granger, which forced her to project a more condescending look than usual; an instinctual act of self preservation. To be honest, Narcissa could not figure out why the girl was standing there in a defensive stance. She could not read Hermione’s expression. Even if she was a Legilimens, the girl emitted too many emotions to just focus on one. 

As soon as the brunette’s hand grasped her left arm, Narcissa knew. She knew that Hermione was reliving that night at the Manor. How Narcissa had stood by and let the young girl be tortured and tormented by her older sister. A small feeling of guilt tugged at her chest and her facial expressions began to soften. 

Hermione did not see this, though. She could not focus on anything else that night. The two had stood there in silence this whole time, both absorbed in their own thoughts. Without another word, or acknowledgement of Narcissa’s existence, she looked past the woman and turned on her heel. Fury still smoldered within her. 

The urge to flee before she lost control was too great. She could feel herself losing control of her emotions. Hermione knew she  needed to leave before she did something she would regret later. 


	3. The Manor

"Password"

The Fat Lady's voice echoed as Hermione marched up the steps, still seething with anger.

"Collywobbles," Hermione replied through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing at the portrait. In her hurry to get away from Narcissa, strands of hair flew loose from her bun, and her dress was all out of sorts, giving her a very disheveled and distressed look. The Fat Lady eyed Hermione up and down, taking special note of her irritable mood. The portrait swung open and Hermione stomped inside. She kicked her heels off and threw her clutch at the wall, knocking down several picture frames with it. The glass that covered the moving pictures shattered as it hit the floor. Hermione gave a satisfactory smirk, as if breaking something was some sort of accomplishment.

The brunette could not get what she had overhear out of her mind. Was Professor McGonagall really desperate enough to offer _Narcissa Malfoy_ a position as a teacher? The woman was married to an ex Death Eater, her sister was the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange, her family were pureblood supremacists, and she housed Voldemort during the whole Second Wizard War. Honestly, the list could go on. So why had the Headmistress note how Narcissa had been "qualified" to teach?

She paced inside the Common Room, the scar on her arm still burning. "How many non-pureblood students will suffer if she becomes a teacher?" Hermione declared out loud to no one in particular, an accusatory tone in her voice.

Sure, Hermione was livid at the Professor's impertinence, but most of all, she felt _betrayed_. Bellatrix Lestrange was the one who had carved the slur into her arm, but Narcissa Malfoy was guilty by association.

Hermione walked over to the fallen picture frames, careful not to step on any glass shards. She picked up one of the pictures and a smiled sadly. It was taken during her Sixth Year, right after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup. Harry and Ron were in the front of the picture, beaming in celebration of their victory. Back then, times were still hard. The Trio faced so much adversity and the wizarding world was in constant danger with Voldemort rising to power. But, even under the stress of defeating Voldemort, Hermione was still able to smile and laugh.

So why did she feel so alive when they had been staring death in the face? Why did she feel so _dead_ now that everything, and everyone, is safe?

Slowly, Hermione stood up and ambled over to the large sofa and slouched in it with a mental sigh. She stared into the hearth and watched as the embers ate away at the logs. The fire crackled, its sound soothing away her bitterness. She became entranced as she watched the flames dance along the stone wall of the fireplace and her thoughts returned to the delphic blonde witch.

To see Narcissa in such a vulnerable state baffled Hermione, which was probably the reason she could not stop her mind from wandering back to the woman. Narcissa Malfoy had looked so _human_ , Hermione recalled, as she stood on the balcony and gazed into the black night. The image was ingrained in her mind. The Gryffindor tried so hard to stay angry, but the more she remembered how surprised Mrs. Malfoy had been to see her, as well as the sorrow that she saw in the older witch, the more her anger began to ebb away.

In Hermione's moment of rage, she failed to perceive a very important detail. Her eyes widened in shock as she recounted the events that happened in the past few hours. It had happened when Narcissa had noticed Hermione's presence. At the time, Hermione could think of nothing but her ire. Subconsciously, she had been scratching at the nasty scar on her arm and Narcissa had saw. The moment Narcissa had looked down at the scar, the unthinkable happened.

Guilt.

 _Guilt_ had somehow escaped Narcissa's impassive facade.

And now the same _guilt_ nagged at Hermione.

Hermione had never realized that Narcissa had been a victim of the war, too. She had never realized that there might have been a reason the woman felt guilty when presented with a demon of her past. The brunette had only thought about how she, herself, would have been affected had Narcissa stepped in to stop her torture. Hermione never thought about what would have been Narcissa's consequences. No doubt, Bellatrix would have punished her, and if the older sister didn't, then other Death Eaters, if not Voldemort, probably would have.

So Narcissa had been put in an impossible situation as well. "Great," Hermione mumbled as she threw her head back into red plush pillows.

It didn't take long for Hermione to gain the title "know-it-all." Others had started calling her that a few months into her First Year. The young witch could admit that she enjoy flaunting her knowledge during her youth. Even now, after a few years of being forced to mature years beyond her age, she loved being right and loathed being proven wrong.

The way she had acted tonight was wrong.

The way she handled seeing Narcissa was wrong.

Hermione had believed that Narcissa did not stop her sister from tormenting her, simply because she did not want to. Now it was possible that Narcissa did not stop her sister because, figuratively speaking, had her hands tied behind her back. Where Hermione had been so certain that Narcissa was a vile bitch only a few hours ago, she was now uncertain. She was inclined to still believe that the woman had not wanted to step in, but Hermione couldn't help feeling as if she didn't know the whole story. An itching desire to find out the truth filled her. The brunette would need to confront Narcissa about it, otherwise her brain would never cease to bring it back up.

With a very loud sigh, Hermione stood up and walked over to a table where she had been studying earlier in the day. A large leather bound book lay open on the table. It was beautiful and antique, clearly very old. She ran her hand over the over, tracing the letters with her finger. The large book was a student log that kept track of every child that enrolled at Hogwarts. It was forbidden for students to look at —not that any normal student would go out of their way to look at it anyways. She knew that it would need to be returned in the morning, before anyone noticed it was missing. But, that was okay. Hermione found what she was looking for anyway.

Hermione turned to walk up the staircase that lead to her room, her shoulders slouched forward in resigned discomfiture. Even though she did not want to admit it, Hermione knew that she needed to apologize to Narcissa. First, for her actions, and second, for the death of Draco. And in order to do that, she would have to swallow her pride for once. Just the thought of having to approach the Malfoy matriarch made Hermione's heart began to race in anxiety. She bit her bottom lip as she climbed up the stairs, a sense of dread overwhelming her.

In the morning, Hermione would have to _willingly_ seek out Narcissa.

And where would Narcissa Malfoy be?

At the _Malfoy Manor._

_\----_

Hermione stood near the front gates to the Malfoy Manor. The towering iron gates were open, which was strange because they were usually closed —or at least she assumed they would be closed. Slowly, Hermione walked forward, adrenaline pumped through her veins, causing her to be on edge. Her eyes darted side from side, waiting for something to jump out and try to attack her. She could feel the heartbeat in her fingertips, which beat more rapidly as leaves rustled in the bushes to her left. The tall hedges on either side of the pathway caused to her to feel claustrophobic, but she tried to choke down the feeling by focusing on the very front door.

Hermione abruptly stopped when she reached the porch. Her eyes traveled up the colossal house and almost instantly she became intimidated. _Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea,_ she thought as she forced herself forward to the very large front door. _I haven't even thought about what I'm going to say,_ Hermione looked back toward the gates, which seemed miles away from the front of the house. Her heart sank as realization hit her like a brick wall. Coming to the Malfoy Manor was a mistake.

As she turned to leave, the dauntingly large oak doors swung open. Hermione's mouth went dry as Narcissa Malfoy appeared in front of her with a less-than-amused look on her face. Hermione stared at her for several moments before coming to herself, all the while Narcissa continued to glare at her.

Hermione was not sure what she had been expecting, but the imposing way Narcissa stood there was not exactly what one would consider...inviting. Had she really expected the older witch to invite her into the house for tea? No, but Hermione didn't quite plan on it being so hard to _talk_. The way Narcissa stood there, arms crossing her chest and one eyebrow arched, made Hermione feel self conscious. The matriarch had always been somewhat of a fashion symbol within the wizarding community; her endless amount of wealth saw to that. Usually, Hermione was comfortable in her skin, and the way she dressed, but in this moment she felt so _small_ standing in front of the woman.

"I…—" Hermione began, but cut herself off before she started to stutter. She looked down and started to fidget with her hands. "I just wanted to stop by—" Hermione paused once more, cringing at her attempt at explaining herself as though her reason for showing up was causal. Narcissa just stared at her, boredom etched on her features.

"I saw you at the Gala and noticed you didn't stay long." The Gryffindor broke eye contact. _Of course she didn't stay long, you idiot!_ Hermione thought. They both knew that Hermione only assumed that Narcissa didn't stay after the Gryffindor's little temper tantrum. In fact, it was Hermione who left the party early after seeing the woman. Red colored her cheeks in embarrassment as she remembered childishly storming out of the corridors where she had faced Narcissa.

"I wanted to apologize." She focused on her hands, which were fiddling with the end of her jumper. In that moment she, once again, became very aware of the way she was dressed. Her whole outfit was very...muggle and plain. While Narcissa wore a tailored hunter green dress that fit to her body perfectly and expensive jewels sat on her collarbones, complementing her neckline. _Does this woman ever dress casually?_ Hermione pondered. Hazel eyes met the piercing blue gaze, "Apologize for the way I acted. I shouldn't have let my emotions take control, I'm sorry."

Momentarily, Narcissa's glare softened, as though she would accept Hermione's apology, which confused the hell out of the woman. The blonde's eyebrows furrowed together as she struggled to maintain her aloof-like composure. This was the second time that this girl had, genuinely, surprised Narcissa. What had she heard? Or more importantly, what had she seen? The younger witch's outburst was uncharacteristic of her, but Narcissa understood why. She couldn't blame Hermione Granger for her hatred of the Black, and Malfoy, family. The girl was muggleborn, a "social class" that pureblood families loathed. Granger had terrible things done her to for that simple, and relatively useless, fact.

But why had the girl traveled all this way to apologize? Who would be inclined to do that? _Apologize_ to someone who hadn't batted an eye at their torture, or even tried to stop it. Who would _willingly_ return to the place where they had been tormented? These questions almost terrified Narcissa because she could not fathom why, Hermione Granger of all people, would choose to return.

If there was one thing Narcissa despised, it was being uncertain. Right now, she did not have the upper hand. Right now, she was at the mercy of a younger—lesser—witch. _This will not do,_ Narcissa's subconscious screamed. Old habits die hard. She came from a family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, what could someone expect?

 _Regain control,_ the tiny voice in her head whispered as all reasonable, decent, potential reactions to Hermione's apology were forgotten.

Hermione quickly tucked a loose curl behind her ear, "I realized that I never gave your family my condolences, personally." She remembered a less-than-heartfelt mass letter that the Ministry had signed in her name. "There weren't many of us who survived the war. Now that it is over, I thought it would be beneficial that we —"

"Have you forgotten a very important factor?" Narcissa asked, a hand shot out and grasped the door. Hermione suddenly became afraid that the woman was going to slam the door in her face without letting her explain herself. "We were not on the same side." Narcissa spoke every word with significant emphasis.

"Opposing sides?" Hermione inquired, feigning ignorance. "You lied to Voldemort about Harry's death."

Narcissa's eyes flashed with a dangerous look, almost as if Hermione had just crossed a line. "I lied to protect my son, not _Harry Potter,"_ the older witch hissed.

"Why have you come here?" Narcissa demanded, her patience running thin.

"I told you, I just wanted to sa—"

"If you think I am some reformed pureblood, you should think again." Narcissa took a step toward Hermione, causing the younger woman to, in turn, take a step back. Hermione became very uncomfortable at the aggressive shift in Narcissa's behavior. The blonde's words were ice cold, and her body language showed hints of hostility. But, she moved with effortless fluidity, which almost captivated the young Gryffindor.

"Should I take you down the hall?" Narcissa looked back into the house, her right arm making a small gesture toward the inside of the castle. "Perhaps that will remind you…" Narcissa trailed off, the corners of her mouth curved up in an elegant smile. "Or maybe, if we just roll up your sleeve…" Narcissa took one more step toward Hermione, closing the distance in between them. Her fingertips ghosted over the material that covered the scar on her forearm.

Hermione shivered as Narcissa neared her. Fear shot up her spine and caused her arm to sear with pain. Her breaths became labored, she looked straight past Narcissa and down the hall into the room that lead to the place where she was tortured. Narcissa's words echoed in her mind, which were spoken in a low haunting tone of voice.

"Let me share a little piece of advice." Narcissa leaned closer, until they were so close that Hermione was forced to look into her gunmetal blue eyes. "Never trust a survivor until you learn what they did to stay alive." Narcissa's words were barely audible and they trailed off softly, as if she was recounting something that happened in the past. Hermione watched her intently as Narcissa withdrew, a far off look in her gaze. The brunette found herself hanging onto every word the blonde hair woman said, wondering if her previous words held any deeper meaning.

"People do not change."

For a second Hermione could swear she heard regret in Narcissa's tone. The older witch's voice had certainly lost the edge it had before, but the cold look in Narcissa's eyes did not betray her. If anything, her words filled the air with a sense of rancor. Hermione could not turn away from Narcissa's intense gaze. They stood so close together that all Hermione would have to do is turn her head to touch the other woman.

"They do," Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible. "Draco did."

In that instant, Narcissa snapped. She straightened her shoulders, narrowed her eyes, and stepped backwards. "You wouldn't know the first thing about Draco," she accused, sticking her chin out in a display of superiority.

"I spent six school years being tyrannized by him and his friends. I think I—" Frustration began to color Hermione's cheeks. _Would this woman continue to,_ rudely _, cut her off?_

"Do _not_ play the victim when he is the one dead."

Once again, the subtle feeling of sympathy crept into Hermione's bosom. She watched as Narcissa refolded her arms and stared off into toward the garden on the side of the Manor. "That night, when your family held us hostage," Hermione's tone softened as she paused for a moment. She wondered why Narcissa had not chased her off, or closed the door in her face. She wondered why the aristocrat still stood in the doorway, continuing to speak to Hermione. For some reason, the brunette had a feeling that this was one of the few times she talked to anyone else besides for her husband —who was nowhere to be found.

"Draco didn't identify Harry. Not when Bellatrix asked him and not even when you asked him."

Apprehension tingled at the tips of Hermione's fingers as she tried to gauge Narcissa's reaction to her statement. It was very possible that she had finally crossed the line. "He hardly fought us as we tried to escape. He was casting disarming spells we learned Second Year. Bellatrix took it upon herself to mentor him, so I know he could've used more advanced spells." She expected curses to start flying at any moment. But, as she stared into the face of a woman whom she had detested not only a night before, she couldn't detect any emotion in the other woman's face. Only a question stared back at her —a question she could not seem to answer.

Why was she defending Draco Malfoy?

Narcissa seemed to be thinking the same thing because gave a quizzical arch of her brow.

"He took the Dark Mark," she said, although barely audible. A pained look changed her expression and suddenly the regal woman looked haunted. Hermione witnessed as the woman became lost in her own thoughts.

"Yet he didn't call Voldemor—"

Something jolted Narcissa back into reality, her posture became very rigid and threatening, which caused Hermione to take a step back so she could create some space in between them.

"Do NOT say that name in my house," Narcissa spat as she whipped around and grabbed the edge of the door, one move away from dramatically slamming it in Hermione's face. But, she was a woman of composure and would never let the younger witch have the satisfaction of such a reaction. She just wanted the Granger girl to _leave._ The constant talk about her deceased son was bringing up painful memories and painful emotions. The weight burdened her shoulders; there were too many emotions and unsaid words. She would never be able to rid the perpetual feeling that she was responsible for her son's death. If only she had been a better mother. She should have took him and ran at the first sign of the Dark Lord's return. No matter how much she grieved for his death, Narcissa would never fully recover from her anguish. No matter how much she wished and yearned for him to have survived the war, he would never come back. She is only human, there is only so much she can take.

As the matriarch fell into a silence, Hermione once again had the fleeting urge that she was witnessing something that were not meant for her eyes. Several times Narcissa seemed to switch between aggressive to pensive on a whim. One moment she seemed lost in her own thoughts. Then the next she would bristle with unexpected hostility, spouting words that Hermione knew were aimed to belittle her. Why else would the woman bring up her scar so easily, so ruthlessly? _Well, she is a Black,_ Hermione postulated.

However, Narcissa's callous behavior was not what surprised Hermione. In fact, it was _her own words_. Never would Hermione have imagined justifying Draco and some of his intentions. And never would she have imagined Narcissa defending his choice and reputation as a Death Eater, especially after how hard she tried to save him from such a fate.

Hermione had defended Draco. The boy she punched during her Third Year. The boy she loathed while growing up. Hermione knew she was right and so did Narcissa. Draco hadn't fought back when the Trio was trying to escape the Malfoy Manor. He was a skilled wizard, something he had proven during throughout their years at Hogwarts. Even Hermione could admit that Malfoy was one of the most competitive students when it came to grades, especially in Potions.

_Potions._

Realization hit Hermione like a brick wall, so much so that she let out an audible gasp, which seemed to pull Narcissa from her thoughts. The aristocrat watched as the cogs in Hermione's mind turned. Narcissa was a skilled Legilimens, a common trait in her family, but each time she carefully prodded the girl's mind, she encountered a natural Occlumency shield. _How intriguing,_ Narcissa thought, _what secrets do you have to hide, girl?_

Before she lost her courage, Hermione took a few steps toward Narcissa. "Draco was always very good at Potions," she mentioned as her gaze trailed over the other witch with a knowing look in her eyes.

Narcissa stared blankly at Hermione, bemused by the change of topics and unsure how to respond to the girl's statement. "I always assumed that Draco did well because of Professor Snape's favoritism," Hermione added as she recalled the many times that Draco proved to be a worthy academic nemesis. Often they were in silent competition between who could brew the quickest and most accurate potion. Of course, Hermione subconsciously had an inclination for wanting to prove she was smarter, and better, than Draco, a _pureblood_. But, she also had longed for praise and recognition from the late Potions professor. Although, nothing ever came out of his mouth besides insults, and she always had her feelings hurt by it.

"But I guess I was…" Hermione trailed off, not sparing Narcissa a look as she came to her conclusion, "wrong." The statement was much harder to admit than Hermione had anticipated, but she forced out the words anyways. She finally summoned enough bravery to return her attention back to Narcissa and wasn't surprised when she saw the woman had regained her cold indifference.

Narcissa stayed quiet, a bit too shocked to speak, but of course she would never lead that bit of information on. How had Hermione found out? It wasn't necessarily a secret, but what good did it do the younger girl to allude to the fact that Narcissa had once tried to complete a Mastery in Potions. Of course she would teach her son what knowledge she held. What difference did that make? However, Narcissa could not get it out of her mind that there was another reason the girl was bringing it up. The muggle born was too observant for her own good, which made Narcissa feel slightly uncomfortable. What other things did she pick up on?

"Your family have done awful things in the past," Hermione said, the tone of her voice softening as she continued her advancement. Her steps were slow and deliberate, just as her words. Sympathy shone in her hazel eyes, and for the first time, Hermione felt pity for the woman in front of her. "But that is the past," Hermione's gaze drifted past the woman in front of her and back down the hall. She took a deep breath and tried to forget about what happened the last time she was within the walls of this house.

"I know what it feels like to lose someone," Hermione closed her eyes, vividly recalling the day she placed a memory charm on her parents. At first, she didn't think it would work. After all the research she had done, there was no guarantee that it would prove successful. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and even though Hermione knew it was the best option, there still had been a tiny part of her that hoped they would remember. But, that hope was diminished when she saw their precious memories start to become erased from their minds. Recognition slowly faded from their eyes, leaving them face to face with their daughter who was now nothing more than a stranger. "No one deserves that kind of pain."

"Not even you, Narcissa Malfoy."

Narcissa took a step backwards and Hermione closed the distance, anxiety prickled in her stomach as she suddenly became aware that she no longer had the upper hand. Instead, she found herself speechless. Without thinking, Hermione reached out and gently touched the older woman's arm, but Narcissa didn't notice. She was too focused on the knowing look that was evident in Hermione's countenance. Narcissa searched for a sign that Hermione was faking her sympathy, but she could only find genuine compassion in the girl's eyes. The Gryffindor waited for a reaction as the two stood there in a hypnosis.

"Hermione Granger," sneered a deep voice from the end of the hallway. "To what do we owe this pleasure?" Lucius Malfoy stalked forward, snapping the two out of their trance.

"She was just leaving," Narcissa finally said as Hermione immediately stepped away from the both of them. She watched in fear as Lucius neared them and noticed that Narcissa's gaze was still trained on her. Hermione took that as an excuse to leave before Lucius got any closer. A small part of her felt like more words needed to be said, but another part knew that she had gotten her point across. Hermione knew because she could see it in the way Narcissa looked at her; a mask of perplexity that was shielded from her husband's view. She pressed her lips in a thin line, and without another word, she turned to leave out the door. A loud pop signaled her departure.

Narcissa straightened out her dress and reached up to fix a strand of hair that had fallen in her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell Lucius was staring at her, clearly wondering why the know-it-all had showed up, but she wasn't willing to tell him. Instead, she ignored his presence and focused back on the spot where Hermione Granger at disapperated. The spot on her arm tingled where Hermione had touched her. It was the first time she had any human contact since Draco's death.

Uncertainty replaced the guilt-ridden feeling that had yet to stop since the end of the final battle. For one of the first times in her life, she felt utterly confused. Narcissa forced herself to recover her poise, but her mind could not stop coming back to one thought.

It almost seemed as though Hermione Granger _cared_.


	4. The Apprentice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I just wanted to apologize how long it took me to update this chapter. Life got busy and it just slipped away from me. Huge shoutout and thank you to the wonderful Jaely for prodding my muse awake. This chapter is shorter than the rest. But, that being said, the fifth chapter is currently being written. I'm going to try to update more frequently. My goal is about once a week, or week and a half.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. Enjoy

The sound of high heeled footsteps echoed down the hallway. Each rhythmic clicks resonated throughout the empty house, creating a sad melody. Everything in the mansion lacked luster, dull and colorless —an allusion to the terrible events that had taken places within its very walls. The insipid nature of the decor paralleled the agonizing despair the inhabitants felt.

Narcissa entered the kitchen, absorbed in her own thoughts. She recounted the days when balls and masquerade parties were held in their house. The grandeur and excitement used to light up the hallways, and music could be heard meters away from the house. Now, light hardly seeped through the thick drapes that covered the windows. Lucius had ordered the house elves to keep the house dark, even though he hardly ventured out of his study.

Today, Narcissa was feeling oddly light. Although nothing in her life had changed, she felt as if some of the weight she carried was lifted from her shoulders. She had even enjoyed her morning tea in the garden, which was now as beautiful as ever, with all the flowers in full bloom.

A white piece of parchment paper, that was sitting on top of the counter, caught her eye. Narcissa stared at the black letters that read, _Narcissa Malfoy,_ on the front. She reached out to grab the paper, suddenly realizing exactly who left it there. Lucius.

Narcissa had placed the letter in the drawer of the nightstand, in the master bedroom -a bedroom that Lucius had been prohibited from entering months ago. As frustrating as it was, her first reaction wasn't anger. It was fear. In order to find it, he had to have had searched throughout the house. She wasn't necessarily hiding it from him, but he _had_ prohibited her from attending. Yet, she did anyways. And Lucius had adopted quite the temper within the past year. She could only imagine his reaction when he found it.

A reaction Narcissa wished she could have witnessed.

"Looking for something," Lucius's honey smooth voice called out as he walked out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Narcissa turned around to face her estranged husband. She was not oblivious to the bite in his words, or the fact they were more of a statement than a question.

"If I'm correct, I should be the one asking that question," she retorted without missing a beat. Narcissa dropped the paper as if it held no interest to her anymore. Without another word, she began to prepare her midday tea, continuing on without any other acknowledgement of Lucius's presence. Obviously, he was not welcomed here.

"You disobeyed me."

Narcissa poured the tea into a cup, dropped a sugar cube into it, then began to stir her spoon in slow circles.

"What do you mean, _dear_?" Narcissa riposted as she lifted her gaze to meet his. A smirk graced her lips, while the look in her eyes reflected a challenge. Her voice was sweet and soft, but the venom in it was palpable.

"Tell me, _wife_ , what was Hermione Granger doing at our house the other day?"

* * *

"You called me, Headmistress?"

Hermione ambled toward the large mahogany desk, her hands fiddling with the end of her sweater. Half a week ago she had decided to go visit Mrs. Malfoy at the Malfoy Manor to apologize. That night had left Hermione completely muddled; any pretense she had walked up to the blonde woman with had disappeared as soon as she disapparated back to Hogwarts.

She was left emotionally confused. So Hermione did what she does best: studied.

If anyone thought that Hermione already claimed the library as her second room before, they were now convinced she never left. But, this method of avoiding problems worked —for the time being. With each passing day, she grew more confident about the approaching N.E.W.T exams, and she was not thinking about Mrs. Malfoy any longer.

Yes, that was it. Hermione had moved on —she had given her condolences and now it was time to focus on herself. The Gryffindor was not thinking about the way Narcissa stood on the balcony, clearly seeking solace. She was not thinking about the look of desperation that slipped through that impassable facade. Most of all, she was _definitely_ not thinking about how her skin tingled when she had touched the other woman's arm.

"Yes. Miss Granger, please have a seat" Professor McGonagall repiled as she adjusted her spectacles. "Would you care for some tea, dear?" The Headmistress's voice brought Hermione back to reality as she chided herself for becoming so absorbed in her thoughts. Hermione nodded her head and with a flick of the older woman's wand, several teacups were floating toward the small table.

"You may be wondering why I called you here," Professor McGonagall stood up from her desk and made her way toward the seating area of the office. "I have a request to make of you."

Hermione stayed silent as she picked up the teacup and took a few cautious sips.

"I have noticed that you have been spending most of your time in the library," McGonagall started, never taking her eyes off of the Gryffindor in front of her.

Hermione nodded her head at the statement, a bit unsure why the Headmistress had addressed her time in the library first. Hadn't she always spent most of her time in the library? "I suppose I have?" The burnette's brows furrowed together at the uncertainty in her voice, which sounded more like a question that a sure answer. "My N.E.W.T exams are only a few months away," she added, attempting to recover herself from her previous answer.

"Yes, well, they are months away," McGonagall responded nonchalantly as she reached for her cup. Hermione looked down at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap. It was still the beginning of the school year, so in fact, the N.E.W.T.S were very far away. She could not help the embarrassment prickle up her cheeks as the professor called out her white lie. "You are certain that nothing is on your mind?" McGonagall finally mentioned with her trademark arched brow.

"Yes" Hermione said briskly, "I am quite certain."

There was an edge to the girl's tone that caused the Headmistress to purse her lips into a thin line. "Would you be interested in a potential research opportunity?" Something told the professor not to press the issue any further. But, if she learned anything from teaching the girl who sat in front of her, it was that _something_ was, and still is, on her mind. Throughout the years, the younger witch had always willing told her almost everything. So, the spectacled professor wondered why this time was any different.

This seemed to catch Hermione's curiosity because she perked up, the brittleness shown half a second ago was gone in an instant. "A research opportunity?" She leaned forward, excitement evident on her face.

"Due to the circumstances last year left us," McGonagall paused and they both let the reverent silence fill the air as they remembered their comrades who were lost in the war, "we had to recruit a number of new professors." Hermione blinked and slightly shifted in her seat, something the older witch did not fail to notice. "Many of whom need help preparing their classrooms for the school year. Several have already showed interest in having you aid them in their research. As I understand it, they are willing to instruct you outside of lecture, and in return, you are to help them in the classroom."

Hermione had to continually fight the urge to jump up and hug the Headmistress. A mixture of emotions rolled through her at the moment. First, she was not sure if this was something Professor McGonagall was doing out of pity, simply because she did not get to be this year's Head Girl. Second, she was both surprised and flattered (mostly flattered) that _several_ of the new professors were interested in having _her_ , not only aid them during the school year, but let her assist in their research.

"Yes, I would absolutely love to!" Hermione exclaimed with a wide grin and gleam in her eyes. To see Hermione happy caused a pang in the older witch's heart. Something was different —off —about the girl ever since the war ended. She seemed more withdrawn, more melancholy, and she smiled less and less with each passing day. There was a time when the Trio's youth allowed them to be carefree, but those days were gone. And what the Headmistress saw in front of her was no longer a wild haired child, but instead a woman who had aged beyond her years. The world the girl had grown up in was harsh and had given her too many scars and terrible memories. As much as the professor tried to shield the children from the horrors of their world, they seemed to have gotten the worst of it.

"May I ask who I will be assisting? When will we be getting started?" Hermione's words rushed out a mile a minute as she scooted to the end of her seat.

The Headmistress returned her attention toward the young witch and gave her a warm smile. "You will be starting right away," she pointedly ignored the first question. "However," Professor McGonagall stood up and walked over to her desk, "you will need to go to the potions classroom." She pulled out a piece of parchment from a desk drawer. "Once you are there, you will find out what to do next. Give this to the professor when you meet them." McGonagall extended the paper in her hand, signalling Hermione to come grab it.

Too eager to wait any longer, Hermione speed walked over to the Headmistress's desk and grasped the white paper. "Thank you, professor," Hermione said in an earnest tone of voice. This opportunity would prove to be useful in many ways. She would benefit by not only gaining hands on experience in a research lab, but also learn from a brilliant teacher, whoever that teacher may be.

Minerva McGonagall folded her arms into the sleeves of her robes. "Of course, Miss Granger."

* * *

Excitement thrummed through Hermione's veins as she hurried down to the dungeons. Why had Professor McGonagall sent her to the potions classroom? Maybe that was where the new professor was staying momentarily until they got settled into their new room. She looked down at the parchment in her hand and turned it over a few times. The paper was folded into thirds with a Hogwarts wax seal pressed at the opening, but it did not say who it was addressed to. "Curious," Hermione said in a whisper.

The air got noticeably colder the further she walked down the steps into the dungeons of the castle. She never particularly cared for how cold it got in the winter, but it seemed as though she was always too focused on her school to notice. Suddenly, goosebumps rose on her arms and shivers raced down her spine. Anticipation built at the pit of her stomach as she neared the large old wooden doors that held Potions classroom behind them.. Maybe it was because of her excitement, or maybe it was because of her childhood memories. _Old habits die hard_ , Hermione thought as she realized that she was bracing herself for the notorious Professor Snape to come billowing out of the classroom. She would always remember his trademark sneer and timbre voice barking orders at her; the professor had terrorized most of her educational career. The thought was sobering, for he was no longer going to hide in the shadows of the night, waiting to give detention to the next passerby. His life ended with the war. And if not for him, Hermione was certain that her's would have too.

Hermione hesitated in front of the door to the classroom. For some reason unknown, she could not fight the nervousness that made her stomach churn. She clenched the paper in her hand, clinging to it like the parchment offered some kind of reassurance that she was, indeed, supposed to be down there. Without another thought, Hermione pushed open the large wooden doors.

To her dismay, the room was empty. Sheets covered the cauldrons, cobwebs hung in the corner, and broken glass littered the floor. Hermione scrunched up her nose in disappointment and carefully stepped over the shards of shattered glass. She grabbed the corner of the white sheet that covered one of the tables, and in one motions, pulled it off. As the sheet fell to the floor, Hermione noticed that underneath it had been several intact cauldrons, beakers, and cylinders, as well as a copy of Advanced Potions. N.E.W.T level Potions was one of the last classes she took before she, Ron, and Harry left in search of Voldemort's horcruxes. Though challenging, it had been on of her favorite classes. Hermione could feel her excitement ebb away as she looked around at the remains of her childhood potions classroom.

Caught in the midst of her thoughts, a loud _BANG!_ caused Hermione to drop the book, instinctively grab her wand, and whip around to face her attacker. Her heart raced wildly as she held her breath and quietly made her way toward the sound, which was coming from the potions storage room. Who was down here? Moments ago it was deathly silent —so quiet that someone would be able to hear a pin drop. Hermione mentally cursed herself for being caught off guard. When did she get so slow and easily spooked?

Just as the Gryffindor was about to turn the corner and peer into the storage closet, she came very close to running straight into the attacker. With impressive speed and skill, Hermione spun backwards, creating some space between her and the other person. Her wand was aimed at the other, like an arrow taut in the bow, ready to fire at any given moment.

Slowly, Hermione realized that she recognized the supposed attacker.

The person stood in front of her, poised with their shoulders back, chin held high, and an unamused glared directed straight at Hermione.

Beautiful, as if sculpted out of marble.

Cold, yet flawless.

 _Narcissa Malfoy_.


	5. Little by Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! First, I want to apologize for my absence. It was definitely longer than I had anticipated, but alas, here is the next chapter. 
> 
> Finals are in a few weeks, but after they are finished, I plan on writing a chapter every week (someone please hold me to this, haha). I know these last chapters haven’t been very long; I’m much more worried about the pacing of the story and where a natural break would occur. Things will definitely start to pick up from here! It is still a slow(ish) burn, so hold out. Hopefully it will be worth it. 
> 
> If any readers could leave a review, that would be absolutely wonderful. It doesn’t have to be long, haha, but I would appreciate some feedback! This chapter wasn’t beta’d, so all mistakes are my own. I hope you guys enjoy!

Minerva McGonagall sat in a large maroon lounge chair with her legs crossed, hands rested in her lap, pointedly staring at a portrait of a very familiar face. She was less than amused —the tightness in her brow, and rigid posture told as much. Ever since her first year as a teacher, stress had turn into an old acquaintance. It had been constant. The panic. The distress. During the war, she not only had the students safety to worry about, but also the fate of the whole wizarding world. But this year, something was different. Now that the war was over, everyone had time to readjust to everyday life. Everyone except for her.

As soon as Voldemort was defeated, she immediately began to plan the reconstruction of the school. With Dumbledore gone, as well as Severus Snape, she was one of the only candidates left that could direct the reconstruction of the school. During the war, if anyone would have asked how she would feel once Voldemort and his Death Eaters were defeated, she would have said something such as “relieved”, or “ _free”._ However, months have passed since that glorious moment, and she felt nothing compared to first, or latter.

While the rest of the wizarding world spent time readjusting to life without the constant fear of death and despair, she was spending endless nights and days worrying about the future of Hogwarts. To say the school had been damaged was an understatement, because it had been very close to demolished. Most of the walls had caved in, wards were completely broken, and the worst part, many students and faculty were lost in the war. The ancient magic that ran deep within the school suffered. It’s stores were weak, but still there. The school was close to ruins, but it was still _there_.

Not a single soul campaigned to permanently close Hogwarts, but instead everyone gathered behind the movement to rebuild it. The support was shocking. Within no time, it had been rebuilt with the help of hundreds. Everyone from mothers to some of the most powerful—wizards and witches were passionate about reopening Hogwarts. At first, Minerva was startled by the ardor of the community. But, she was tired and wanted rest. The war was over. Selfishly, she wanted to retire and let the next generation take over. Hadn’t she done her part? She protected, taught, and _mentored_ students across many decades. Oh, how close she was to throwing her hands in the air, only to disappear to a cottage somewhere no one would be able to find her. All she wanted, since the start of the war, was peace and quiet. And yet, Minerva decided to stay. To stay with the school was her fate. She had spent all her adolescence and adult life within the walls of the colossal castle; it was her calling to inspire the new future of the school. A new future that she found, surprisingly, unsettling.

After the war ended, people settled back into a normal lifestyle. From the outside, it looked as though there was peace at last. And, to a certain extent there was. It wasn’t until the first few weeks of school that the Headmistress began to recognize a familiar prejudice. Once the Ministry reorganized after the Final Battle, Death Eaters, and anyone with ties to Voldemort’s followers, had been arrested. Court dates and trials sent the media in a frenzy. The cells of Azkaban had names written in stone—a death sentence to anyone who was given a trial date. The wizarding community felt a strong pull for justice of those who fought, were injured, or died, in the war. Liberty bells rang while former Death Eaters were condemned to life confined within the walls of Azkaban, or even given the Kiss. A sentence they all earned.

The masses sought justice, but without acknowledging it, they merely promoted the same prejudice and ideals that they fought against during the war. Friends of friends, uncles, grandmothers, those who had any kind of relation to the loyal followers of Voldemort were judged mercilessly. No one was spared, not even the children. At first, the Headmistress had told herself that she was too overwhelmed with the reconstruction to notice. However, she had to admit, it was easier to turn a blind eye. Justice was justice. She knew so many that had fought and died for future freedom from the oppression of Voldemort and his followers. Even though the head of the snake had been, metaphorically cut off, people were afraid the Death Eaters that had survived would try to regroup and avenge their fallen leader. So, with blind rage and bitterness of the past, they prosecuted _anyone_ and _everyone_ who could eventually be traced back to the Dark.

Then, one night while making her rounds, she spotted a Second Year in the courtyard, laying face down in the pouring rain. After calling his name several times, the Headmistress, very irritatedly, hurried over to give him detention for being out past curfew, only to find him in a full body bind. It didn’t take long to understand the motive behind the boy’s perpetrators. He was the only child of a well known family, who happened to have supported Voldemort during the Second War. Shortly after this incident, McGonagall began to notice this type of mischief proliferating. More and more children of parents who supported Voldemort were at the brunt end of these pranks. Minerva worried as these jokes were increasing at an alarming rate.

“Do try not to look so cross, Minerva”

The older witch tore her gaze away from the ticking grandfather clock and shifted over to the portrait of the man that had mentored her in her youth. .

A well groomed brow quirked up as Minerva tilted her head sideways slightly, “What do you want, Albus?”

The whimsical man straightened his posture, crossed his legs, and propped his elbow on the back of the chair. “The weather is absolutely lovely today.”

“Your portrait is on the same wall as the window, you wouldn’t know,” Minerva quipped, the tone of her voice clearly held some sort of irritation with the painting. “Besides, it’s snowing.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye and a dreamy far off look, “the first snow of the year was always my favorite time of year.”

Minerva couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his statement. “If you have something to say, then say it, Albus. I’m very busy and you are distracting me with pointless conversation.” The ire in her countenance was palpable, even for the portrait of the late great wizard to detect.

“When I was a young boy, the wizarding community was thriving. Everyone was able to lead a light hearted and carefree life. However, those times came to an end, very quickly.”

Silence filled the air, momentarily, as both were lost in quiet contemplation.

“Everything is carried out for a reason. What you did was for the best, Minerva.” And with that last statement, Albus’ portrait settled down once more and pretended to drift off to sleep.

Minerva moved from her seat to the window, without as much as a glance toward her friend. The only sign of acknowledgement she gave was an exhausted sigh. It was going to be a long winter.

\-------

Until a few _weeks_ ago, Hermione’s life had been a mundane routine, lost in the madness of a political world she had felt obligated to join. Until a few _days_ ago, she had been looking forward to resume a normal life as a student, reconnect with friends, and focus on studying for the N.E.W.T.S. However, somewhere in the depths of her mind, the Gryffindor knew her dream of normalcy was far fetched, but she continued to dream anyways.

Now Hermione was standing, once again, face-to-face with the woman who had helped make her childhood a living hell. Narcissa Malfoy’s part may have been smaller than most, but her crimes had hardly gone unnoticed as Hermione was growing up. The woman who had openly mocked her blood status, housed Voldemort and all his Death Eaters, and took pride in her ridiculous prejudices. But, something was different about her, even though Hermione could not quite pinpoint what. The blonde socialite still stood with an air of haughtiness and unwavering regality, but she looked tired—no—exhausted.

And there _she_ was, Hermione Granger, wild eyes and hair, her wand pointed straight at that woman, who hadn’t even attempted to raise her own. Shock and surprise must have been clearly evident on the brunette’s face, because the older witch only crossed her arms in response. Slowly, Hermione lowered her wand and quickly slammed shut her open mouth, suddenly tongue tied and flushed with embarrassment of her overreaction.

“Are you done?” Narcissa drawled, crossing her arms in front of her chest as if she was, less than, patiently waiting for a child to finish their temper tantrum. “We will not get anything done today if you keep wasting time gawking and gaping.”

Hermione’s gaze traveled downward to the floor, a mix of emotions swirling in her chest. First, she wanted to react with anger—and not just anger directed at Mrs. Malfoy, but at the Headmistress. Professor McGonagall, her _favorite_ professor, her _confidant._ Hermione clenched her wand in her hand, she was tempted to turn around and leave without another word. The Headmistress knew about Hermione’s past and what happened at Malfoy Manor, didn’t she? And yet, the professor still thought it was best for the younger witch to work directly under this woman? She would not stand for this indignation. She would _not_ be defiled in such a way.  

Was she to expect this woman was now _reformed_ and able to rejoin society without her ill-willed biases? What benefit was it that Narcissa Malfoy would now be the new Potions Professor?

Hermione drew in a deep breath as memories from the night she went to give her condolences resurfaced. Narcissa had put up an, almost, impenetrable front. But, Hermione did not miss the flash of sorrow in the woman’s eyes. It was gone within a blink, however she had not forgotten about it. How could she possibly forget the hopelessness and desperation that slouched the posture of the Malfoy matriarch. Then, Hermione remember the way Narcissa had reacted when she had touched her, like she was longing for human connection.   

 _She lost her son_ , Hermione’s conscious reminded, _maybe all she needs is time_. And that was one thing Hermione could give her. Time was no longer running out, there was no more Dark Lord to defeat. That small, four letter word, was one of the main things that helped Hermione heal after the war ended. She was no stranger to pain, anguish, and grief. However, she had friends—Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville—they all were there for each other. Narcissa had no one and the thought made her heart squeeze with compassion.

Narcissa cleared her throat.

“Oh—ah, yes?” Hermione sputtered, as she tried to reel in her thoughts and rebuild her Occlumency walls, once more. She bit her lip and willed herself to continue talking. “Mrs. Malfoy, I didn’t expect to see you down here.”

Half-truth, but Hermione was not going to admit to eavesdropping on the conversation Narcissa had with Professor McGonagall at The Gala.

“Well, here I am. Now, if we could get started. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Still in a brain-and-tongue bind, Hermione nodded her acknowledgement. She knew that no matter how much she wanted to, there was no way her pride would let her walk away. _Suffer in silence_ , her thoughts echoed, _maybe there is something you can learn from this experience. After all, Narcissa Malfoy is a lot more than she lets on._

Narcissa gave her an odd look, but didn’t press the issue any longer. She was actually quiet surprised to see that the girl had stayed, considering the many different emotions that flashed across the girl's face had been practically tangible. It did not take a skilled Legilimens to sense the displeasure that had initially rolled off the brunette. Within the span of seconds, her vexation had turned into something completely different, then, nothing at all. It seemed as though the younger witch was reminded to shield her mind once more.

At first, Minerva had questioned why Narcissa had specifically asked for Granger to assist her in the classroom. And if Narcissa was being honest, she did not quite know herself. But, of course she would not openly admit that.

_“Narcissa Malfoy," Minerva said, rather surprised. " I did not expect to receive a response. Especially not one that was accepting my offer,” the professor remarked as she walked into her office, Narcissa trailing just a few feet behind._

_  
_ _“Yes, well, I know how desperate Hogwarts is to find those who are adequate enough to fill in open positions,” she responded rather curtly, no matter the desperation to rejoin society that constantly hung over her head like some stormcloud._

 _McGonagall turned around to face the woman who stood proudly in the middle of her office. The older witch suppressed a small chuckle of amusement. Of course a Black would take her proposal and make it sound as if_ she _was doing_ them _a favor, all the while underhandedly giving herself a compliment._

_Well, Minerva McGonagall was no fool. She had basically watched this woman grow up. She knew the games that family played._

_“Of course,” she returned to her desk, mindlessly waving her wand to conjure the right paperwork Narcissa would need to begin her year as a teacher. “Since it is your first year, and you have quite a bit of work to do_ — _not only writing lesson plans, but also rebuilding and restocking the potions classroom, you may have an assistant of sorts. Is there anyone you would have in mind? A student perhaps? I know a few Seventh Year’s who would be more than willing to hel_ —”

“— _Hermione Granger”_

_“Hermione Granger?” The Headmistress repeated, looking rather uncertain, as if Narcissa had just gone completely bonkers._

_Narcissa blinked a few times, confused, until she realized what she had said._

_“Yes. She is the brightest witch of her age, is she not? I’m sure she will benefit from...helping me in the classroom,” Narcissa said, attempting to recover herself._

_Minerva quirked a brow, “Hermione is a hard working student.” The professor’s gaze met with Narcissa’s, one that could easily match intensity. “I will let her know right away.”_

The blonde witch had tried to convince not just Minerva, but also herself, that she had asked for Hermione Granger’s assistance because the girl was “smart,” and she would “benefit from helping her in the classroom.” After Narcissa had left the Headmistress’s office, she felt odd all night. Why did she want the know-it-all to help her? Was she really that attention starved? Of course she was, one sister abandon her, one sister was dead, her only son was dead, and her husband was a mindless drunk.

Narcissa let out a snort.

Her life really was going in a downward spiral. Oh, what Druella would say to her now. She could practically hear it.

 _“Keep it together; I raised you better, ”_ Druella Black would say. 

“Well then,” Narcissa refocused her attention on Hermione, “let’s get started, shall we?” She turned around and walked back into the potions storeroom, obviously expecting Hermione to follow.

Hermione’s brows furrowed together in confusion. If she didn’t know any better, she would say that Narcissa Malfoy, the ice queen, looked rather...eager to begin their process of setting up the laboratory.

“We don’t have _all_ day, _girl_ ,” a hiss sounded from around the corner.

With a roll of her eyes, she briskly followed Narcissa into the dark closet-like room.

\----

“Summon parchment and a quill,” Narcissa demanded without turning around. Wordlessly, she cast a _Lumos_ to add light to the pitch black storage room. Hermione did as she was told and within second had the two items in hand.

“Your first assignment will be to go through our stock of ingredients and see which we will need more of. Then, organize them alphabetically.” Narcissa picked up a jar of preserved Newt spleens and inspected it. “We will need to restock before the school year progresses. Everything is running quiet low.”

Hermione nodded, and attentively listened to Narcissa speak, a bit surprised at how cordial she was being. Maybe it was because of their last encounter? If it was, the woman did not let on, and neither of the two were going to bring it up.

Hermione suddenly remember the letter that Professor McGonagall had handed to her in the Headmistress’s office. “Of course, but before we start,” Hermione paused and out stretched a hand to give her the folded piece of parchment, “the Headmistress wished for me to give this to you.”

Narcissa looked back to see what the girl wanted to give her, only to see another small piece of paper. She took the parchment from her and unfolded it.

_I want to thank you, once again, for agreeing to fill in as the Potions Professor. I think you and Miss Granger will find that your choice may be more rewarding than you originally anticipated._

_Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_

_Minerva McGonagall_  

 _Curious_ , Narcissa contemplated, but thought nothing of it and still maintained an impassive expression as she refolded the paper to place inside her robes. Hermione watched Narcissa carefully, wondering what the letter had read, but she knew not to ask, for the woman was unlikely to tell her anyway. She mentally sighed, everyone seemed to be secretive these days.

“I expect you to find me when you are finished. I will be in my office working on lesson plans. When you have a full list of everything we need, we will go collect the ingredients in order to restock for the semester.”

It was then that Hermione felt like this was very similar to a detention with Professor Snape. Couldn’t she help with lesson plans? Or something less elementary as organizing the stockroom? “Of course,” she said, trying to hide the resignation that resided in her voice. However, her response was satisfactory for Narcissa, who left shortly after Hermione began to write down missing ingredients.

What had she signed up for?

 


End file.
